


Salve and Plasters

by radioshack84



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e13 End of Days, Gen, Hurt Jack, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioshack84/pseuds/radioshack84
Summary: Jack's not quite healthy following his return from saving the world.  Owen notices and does something about it.  Jack returns the favor.  Missing scene from "End of Days".





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood or the characters. Written for enjoyment, not money.
> 
> A/N: This story assumes that several hours pass by between Jack's reunion with the team and his conversation with Gwen in his office.

There were no adequate terms to describe the thoughts that went through Owen Harper’s mind as he poked his head around the corner of the stairwell and saw Captain Jack Harkness embracing Ianto Jones. Jack, who was not dead anymore. Jack, who abruptly broke off from kissing Ianto at the scraping clatter Owen’s case of equipment made as it was half-placed, half-dropped to the floor in his state of shock. Owen didn’t even see where it landed. He was watching Jack walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps, and he moved toward Jack in much the same manner, half-aware that his jaw was hanging open. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut so hard that his heart had been shoved upward into his throat. He couldn’t breathe, and his eyes were full up by the time he came to stand in front of the man he’d pronounced dead just days earlier.

The captain, for his part, gave no indication of his state of mind. He just stood there, hands on his hips, and waited. Owen didn’t know what he was expected to do, or say. The situation was just...too... “I’m…” he blurted, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly, but before he could form a “sorry,” or “so glad to see you,” or even a “still pissed at you, but bloody well happy you’re alive,” Jack was interrupting him.

“I forgive you.”

For a moment, Harper thought he was just hearing what he wanted -- no, _needed_ \-- to hear, but slowly he realized that Jack had actually said those words, and that was when he broke down -- nodded convulsively in response, tried to hold together, but ultimately failed. The tears began to fall, and his forehead bumped against Jack’s shoulder as the other man drew him in protectively, holding onto him while he finally let out the days of anger and sorrow, guilt and fear. Jack kissed the back of his head, and Owen sobbed harder.

Some minutes passed before he finally pulled himself together enough to notice that the captain’s hold on him had shifted from a tight embrace to hands firmly gripping each of his shoulders, and Owen then had the presence of mind to wonder when the teasing would commence. Surely Gwen and Tosh were going to have their fun, perhaps even Ianto -- the tough, jaded doctor crying like a baby on his boss’s shoulder and all that -- but when he cast about, puffy eyes squinting under the lights of the Hub, he realized that the girls were nowhere to be seen. Only Ianto remained, trying to look as though he weren’t paying attention to the spectacle -- unsuccessfully, mind you, since his concerned glances were more frequent than his focus on the papers he was making a show of straightening on one of the desks.

Harper frowned. Why was Ianto concerned? The Welshman should’ve been laughing his arse off at Owen’s expense, not looking like he was about to start wringing his hands with worry. Owen briefly considered jealousy as the motive until he finally looked up at Jack, who was staring into space with unfocused eyes that were sporting deep, dark circles beneath them. Jack’s hands were shaking, too, and they rested a bit too heavily on his shoulders, causing Harper to wonder who was supporting whom.

“Jack?” asked Owen warily. “Jack,” he repeated, pressing the backs of his fingers to the side of the other man’s face in an attempt to get his attention. It didn’t work, and the cold clamminess of Jack’s skin was rather alarming, especially given the present circumstances. Ever the doctor, Owen automatically moved onward, searching out the captain’s carotid pulse, which was reassuringly strong, if very erratic.

“Ianto!” Owen called out snappishly when Jack remained unresponsive, and was startled by how quickly his colleague appeared next to him. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re a terrible spy, you do realize?” A hint of a smile crossed Ianto’s face, but disappeared abruptly as Jack swayed where he stood. Owen quickly grabbed Jack’s arm, bringing it across his shoulders, and Ianto wordlessly followed suit on the captain’s other side. “C’mon Jack, let’s get you to bed,” Harper prompted when the other man showed no sign of moving.

“I might be too tired to enjoy that offer at the moment. How about my office instead?” Jack quipped weakly, winking at Ianto, as he finally seemed to catch up to the present.

Ianto blushed. Owen rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to your office, Jack.”

“But I have to to get to my bed.”

Owen sighed in exasperation. “Fine, then, you’re not _staying_ in your office. Returning from the dead -- very impressive -- but you’re about to drop. You could use some rest.”

“I could use some coffee. Ianto…”

“No!” Owen bellowed furiously, suddenly rounding on Jack, while somehow managing to keep an incongruously gentle grip on his arm. “You’ll not have a coffee! Also, I wasn’t asking! You _died_ this week. Twice! The second time I was sure it was fucking permanent, so you’re going to quit being such a stubborn git and you’re going to let me look after you properly for the night. Got it?!”

Jack’s lips pressed into a thin line at Harper’s tone, and he looked away. His eyes on Ianto, Harkness didn’t speak for so long that Owen began to wonder if he’d overstepped once again, if the captain would yet change his mind and throw him out. After all, he _had_ been the cause of Jack’s first death, and could be seen as indirectly responsible for the second. Something other than blame was decided by the other men’s silent exchange, though, because presently Jack’s features softened, and he nodded once to Ianto, squeezing his hand. “Go home, Yan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ianto returned the gesture. “Good night, Sir.”

Harper released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as Ianto took his leave. The relief didn’t last long, though, for the captain sagged against him with a vague grunt of discomfort the moment Jones was gone. “Easy, mate,” Owen instructed, slipping quickly back into doctor-mode as he looped an arm around Jack’s waist. “I need you to stay with me a bit longer.”

“Okay, as long as you make good on your previous offer,” Jack mumbled.

Harper chose to ignore the comment in favor of guiding the unsteady man across the Hub as quickly as possible. He could tell the captain’s strength was flagging as they made the top of the stairs and entered his office, but it happened faster than Owen anticipated and Harkness all but fell down the ladder to his quarters.

“Shit,” Harper cursed softly, jumping down after him, and was barely able to slow Jack’s momentum to a controlled collapse onto his bunk. 

Jack groaned as Owen eased him onto his back. “Dying really _hurts_ , you know that?” he gasped.

The doctor’s instinct was to make a sarcastic reply that few people ever survived it to find out, but one look at Jack’s face told him that the man was sincerely hurting, and Owen was pretty certain he knew why, at least in part. He reached for Jack’s braces, unclipped them, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

The captain smirked at him faintly. “I was only kidding about making good.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Owen acknowledged with a glance that was not at all amused, “but you’re not kidding about the pain, so let’s have a look.” He finished with the buttons, parted the blue fabric, and began to slide Jack’s t-shirt up. He hadn’t gone far when the other man swore, his body tensing involuntarily. Owen frowned and gently moved Jack’s left arm away from where it had pressed protectively against his side. Beneath, a large yellowish stain marred the white of Jack’s t-shirt, and a similar one was beginning to show through above and to the right of his sternum. Owen lightly brushed his fingers against the fabric there and the captain flinched away.

“Look, don’t _touch_!” Harkness growled breathlessly.

Holding up his hands in apology, Harper stood up from the bed. “I need to get my kit. Meantime, heed your own advice.”

Jack nodded stiffly and closed his eyes. Owen climbed up the ladder and hurried down to the medical bay. He was halfway back to Jack’s office when he realized with a sick feeling in his stomach that he’d grabbed the wrong kit, and by the time he got himself turned around and back to medical, the implications of that mistake had turned the nausea into gagging. Owen tossed his field autopsy kit unceremoniously onto the floor and folded himself over the sink, retching until the meager contents of his stomach were expelled and only dry heaves were left to torment him. His mind still could not quite process all that had happened and it flashed back vivid images of the captain’s body laid out on his table, crumpled on the floor bleeding, cold and still in the morgue...

After a time, the spasms and memories finally faded enough that his surroundings came back to him and Owen pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, wiping his face with shaking hands. He filled a nearby coffee mug with water and rinsed his mouth before straightening slowly and looking down in disgust at the array of instruments strewn across the tile. What in hell was wrong with him? Turning away, Harper viciously yanked open a nearby cabinet, retrieved the proper kit -- the one for _living_ patients -- and again headed for Jack’s office. He was still sufficiently rattled when he got there that he missed the last rung on the way down the ladder, causing Harkness to look at him in question, eyebrow raised, as he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, massaging his shin (which had not missed the last rung). Owen resolutely ignored Jack’s stare while he dug through his supplies, coming up with a pair of scissors which he directed toward the captain’s t-shirt.

“That looks drastic,” commented Jack in mock horror. “What did my shirt ever do to you?” 

Harper snorted in spite of himself, pausing a moment for Jack’s benefit as much as his own. “Trust me, you won’t like what it does to _you_ if I let you take it off the usual way.”

The questioning eyebrow was back, and Owen explained as he worked. “I imagine you already saw the burns. I’m also willing to bet that you’re accustomed to such injuries healing over quickly, what with your normal...resilience...but these haven’t, and now your shirt is well and truly stuck to them. I’m going to have to soak it free.” 

“Sounds fun,” Jack deadpanned.

Owen set the scissors aside, having slit the t-shirt from hem to neckline, and glanced up at Jack. He looked worse -- his skin pallid, hair damp with sweat. “Do you need a local before I start?”

Jack shook his head, face stoic, and Owen eyed him for a moment longer, then shrugged, placing down some towels he’d brought along. Peeling back one half of the shirt, he exposed the captain’s flank as much as possible without disturbing the wound, then began to bathe the fabric that remained in sterile saline. The partial bond between it and Jack’s open skin soon started to dissolve, and Owen began peeling again, gently lifting away the material, applying more solution anytime he felt the damaged flesh catch or felt Jack wince. The captain paled further, set his jaw, but said nothing while Owen repeated the slow process with the other burn. 

When he’d finished Jack was shivering badly, probably from both pain and cold, and Harper quickly removed his boots, tugged the covers over his legs, and then helped him sit up enough to slip out of his wet shirts, tossing those and the damp towels into a heap on the floor next to the boots. Jack’s pulse was racing, and he was nearly limp in Owen’s hands as the doctor laid him back down. Harper frowned in concern, and at the same time couldn’t help but wonder at the process in play -- Jack had made a near-instantaneous recovery from a bullet to the forehead and two more to the chest, but not so from his encounter in the field, even though there wasn’t a scratch on him to show for it.

There weren’t varying degrees of dead -- you either were or you weren’t -- although Owen supposed it stood to reason that, in Jack’s case, getting the life sucked out of you might amount to more than one life. How many lives had been taken from him, then? Half of them? Infinity minus one? Preoccupied with his thoughts and the familiar routine of patient care, Harper didn’t notice Jack studying the burns, then studying him, as he worked to dry the captain’s undamaged skin with a clean towel and expertly applied salve and plasters to the red, blistered areas.

“How many times did you hit me with the defibrillator?” Jack suddenly asked.

Owen reacted to the question as though he’d received a jolt of electricity himself. His spine went rigid and he stilled absolutely for a few seconds, then slowly carried on with his task.

“Harper?” Jack prompted again.

The doctor smoothed down a final strip of tape, securing the dressing to Jack’s chest, then abruptly turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. He drew in a shaking breath and released it before reaching over to rummage through his bag. When Jack hadn’t said anything about the burns before, he’d thought that perhaps the man was too worn out to put two and two together. In fact, he’d been counting on it. What now ranked among the most terrible minutes he’d ever experienced replayed themselves in his mind, and Owen swallowed hard against a new wave of nausea. “I stopped counting after eight,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked back at Harkness, a haunted expression on his face. He didn’t mention that he’d kicked Tosh and Ianto out after the fourth go, or that he could see in their reactions when he’d emerged from the medical bay nearly an hour later, unsuccessful, that they’d heard in great detail his subsequent attempts, which had included many rounds of CPR, a couple jabs of adrenaline, an alien device he wasn’t even supposed to have, and no small amount of his own swearing.

Breaking eye contact, Owen made use of the items he’d retrieved from his kit and ran through a quick check of Jack’s vitals (not terribly worried when they were a bit abnormal -- at least they were _there_ ), took a couple vials of blood (maybe for his own curiosity), and drew up and administered doses of antibiotics (precautionary) and pain medication (because those burns would smart for a few more hours at least, as would the inevitable cracked rib or two that Jack would have from the CPR). He explained all this formally, professionally, as he would if on duty in A&E, complete with the recovery protocol, finishing with, “Get some sleep. I’ll check on you in awhile.”

It was a poor performance of the “I’m fine” routine, and Jack knew that Owen knew it, from the way the doctor cringed slightly at his own stiff words to his rushed and sloppy re-packing of his kit, but he let Owen work uninterrupted, held out his arm cooperatively for the blood draw and gratefully for the injections. When Owen awkwardly patted his leg and made to stand, though, Jack decided enough was enough. “You’re not going to tuck me in?”

The comment had the desired effect. Owen stopped and glared at Jack. “Wasn’t planning to!” he grouched.

“Good. Lie down.”

The irritation morphed into incredulity. “Excuse me, but you sounded serious just then, Harkness. Do I need to examine you for brain damage?”

Jack shook his head, his voice weary but his eyes clear, “You’ve given me your orders, Dr. Harper, now I’m giving you one. You’re trembling, and about as pale as I imagine I am,” the captain said, reaching up and splaying a concerned hand on Owen’s back.

Harper huffed out a breath. “I’m fine.”

“Said no one ever who actually was,” Jack retorted mildly. “Have you slept at all since I’ve been gone?”

The doctor didn’t answer, and Jack gripped his arm, his voice firm, “Lie down. _Now_ , Owen.” 

Harper considered his options. If he bolted, Jack wouldn’t easily come after him, but he might well injure himself further if he made the attempt. Owen had dosed him with enough painkillers to knock him out in short order, but not short enough, apparently. Jack’s grip was unwavering, and he looked honestly worried. The doctor was starting to worry a bit himself. Bloody _hell_ , but he was lightheaded. A hard tremor passed through his body, and Owen realized that not only was he shaking as Jack had said, but he was in danger of hyperventilating, too. His surroundings had started to list a little to the left, and he found himself tilting quickly with them as his body chose to follow Jack’s order without his consent.

“Careful, watch your shoulder,” Jack’s voice admonished urgently, and Owen was startled from his brief reverie when the captain grabbed his upper arms, slowing his descent, and in one dizzying motion steered him to lie on his right side instead, his back to Jack’s chest. “There you go,” Jack murmured, his hand lightly resting over the still-healing gunshot wound hidden beneath Owen’s shirt, before shifting to rub slow circles between his shoulder blades.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” Harper said miserably after a time. Jack’s calming efforts had reduced his respiration to near normal, but he was still shaking and the room spun slowly around him.

“Why does that have to be a one-way street?” Jack asked, reaching across and drawing the covers over both of them.

“Because I shot you.”

“I came back.”

“But you died again. That monster came because of me, and _it_ killed you... _I bloody killed you_ twice! Maybe more than twice,” Owen revised, remembering his earlier musing.

“I don’t recall you forcing me out into that clearing. I stepped into that beast’s shadow all on my own.”

“But you shouldn’t have _had_ to, dammit!” Harper shoved the blankets away and tried to get up, but their weight slowed his progress and Jack easily pulled him back in with an arm around his waist, drawing him close. Owen struggled against him, but the captain held fast, wincing and suppressing a gasp of pain when Harper inadvertently bumped one of his injured ribs.

“Owen, _stop_. It’s okay. I’m right here. Everything’s okay now.” Jack waited until Harper’s thrashing eased off, then relaxed his grip slightly, but came nowhere close to letting go. It surprised him a little when Owen’s own arms suddenly came up, clutching his for dear life, and for the second time that day Jack found himself holding a weeping Owen Harper.

The captain closed his eyes sadly and pressed another kiss into Owen’s hair. “Shhh. I’ve got you,” he whispered, curling his body closer to Owen’s, sensing his need for physical reassurance that Jack was, in fact, still there with him. 

“Just wanted you...back. Didn’t mean to...fuck everything up...”

“I know,” Jack murmured, resting his chin on top of Harper’s head. He’d not intended to get stranded in the past, or to fire Owen for that matter, but everything had happened so fast with Bilis Manger and the Rift, tensions had boiled over, and the damage had already been done before Jack had had a moment to set things right. They’d all acted rashly, and it had been wrong of him to place the blame for that squarely on Owen. Too bad it had taken a couple of deaths for him to realize it.

Jack blinked heavily, his head suddenly swimming with the sort of high that only came from Owen’s best pharmaceuticals. It had been a long while since he’d needed narcotic pain intervention, and generally he preferred it that way, but at that moment he was glad for the relief -- it had been an equally long while since he’d felt the prolonged pain of broken ribs and second-degree burns, and his tolerance had suffered. Without the meds, he knew he’d have been flat on his back, not daring to move. Even with them he should’ve been, but the simple fact that Harper hadn’t yet pointed that out told him that he was right where he needed to be. Owen was slowly relaxing into his embrace, and from the sound of his breathing, would soon be asleep if he wasn’t already. Jack’s own eyes slid closed at the thought.

Things would not be as easy between them tomorrow, he knew. Owen would likely be even grumpier than normal and would brood for hours, self-consciousness and uncertainty over today’s events weighing on him. There would be death metal blaring from autopsy. It would get on Jack’s nerves to the point that he’d snag a specimen jar with something slimy inside and fling the contents at the back of Owen’s head when he wasn’t looking. Owen would swear like a sailor, turn his so-called music up even louder for a good twenty minutes, then shut it off altogether. Jack would find an equally-slimy surprise in the pocket of his greatcoat later on (if he was lucky) or in the bottom of his coffee (if he wasn’t). He’d give Owen an overly-dramatic lecture in front of the others, followed by a smirk of approval when no one else was looking. If Owen smirked back, it would be over. If not, round two would commence. Either way, he knew they’d be okay. 

Jack just fervently hoped that they wouldn’t reach round four this time. He couldn’t take another trio of Tylexian sandworms singing in his shower, no matter how cute Ianto had thought they were.


End file.
